


Halcyon

by iiscos



Category: Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Lafayette-centric, M/M, canon-typical historical inaccuracies, not any more (or less) gay than a servant's resolve, pre-canon lafa and fersen wartime (b)romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: Fersen scoffed, stamping out his smoke. “I certainly cannot mock you in front of the Americans. I’d be hung for blasphemy.” He then paused, his smile fading and making way for an air of pensiveness, and perhaps, a hint of doubt. “But I—I prefer this version of you over any ludicrous expectations I had before meeting you properly. I enjoy your company and this—easy camaraderie. One that I never thought we would share.”Only Fersen can manage to offend him, praise him, and render him speechless all in one breath. “Likewise,” Lafayette returned and felt the word hang heavily between them.
Relationships: Marquis de Lafayette & Count Fersen (Dress Up! Time Princess), Marquis de Lafayette/Count Fersen (Dress Up! Time Princess)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	Halcyon

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is wondering where I've been for the past month, I've been obsessively playing this princess dress-up app game where you get to be Marie Antoinette and romance Revolutionary War hero Marquis de Lafayette or Swedish Count Axel von Fersen (except I said fuck that and shipped them with each other, which admittedly, no one asked for—not even the fans of the game asked for. I am apparently determined to become the nichest of niche writers) 
> 
> Anyway, I don't know what to say. Hours have been spent doing background research, although I will not pretend that this is historically accurate (and neither is the game). Please read and let me know what you think, or if I have completely lost my mind

After nearly two years since the King had declared war against Great Britain, aid to the New World finally arrived in the form of a scant troop of soldiers and volunteers —ill-equipped, inexperienced, and commanded by a pompous fool by the title of Comte de Rochambeau. Plainly aware of their inadequacy and shamelessly unforthcoming, Rochambeau insisted on waiting even longer for more reinforcements before the French contingent would formally join the war.

An unforgiving winter and a string of military defeats had tumbled American morale to an all-time low. The King had promised a large army to the Marquis de Lafayette, and Lafayette—much to his present humiliation—had proudly relayed to his American comrades his audacious schemes of capturing New York once his country officially entered the fray. Rochambeau and his haphazardly recruited men were simply unacceptable, and Lafayette made his sentiment startlingly clear in a series of harshly worded letters to his compatriot. 

Taking deep offense to the denunciation, especially one coming from a younger commander, Rochambeau refused to negotiate with Lafayette until the latter would openly apologize. And in the meantime, the Comte showed no restraint in expelling his own acerbic retort by way of his _aide-de-camp_ —the young Swedish Count, Axel von Fersen.

Having been reduced to an errand boy once again, Fersen appeared no more pleased than Lafayette as he dismounted his horse at the edge of the Frenchman’s camp.

“Do take your time with your response,” Fersen urged in fluent—albeit slightly accented—French, as he handed over the message from his general. “I do not wish to return so soon, as long as I have an excuse to be away.”

~~

Lafayette had been surprised to find Fersen among Rochambeau’s retinue at Narragansett Bay. Shortly before his infamous departure to America, the French Marquis was acquainted with the Swedish Count at a banquet in Versailles. And during that brief stay with the royal family, the young Count managed to immerse himself in a deplorable amount of scandal, rumors of a secret rendezvous with the Queen pervading the Palais-Royal, and then, in the weeks that followed, the near entirety of France. Only the circumstances surrounding the incident—the anonymous nature of the masquerade ball—had spared the royal family from total disgrace.

That, and perhaps Lafayette's own scandal that soon overshadowed the alleged affair, when the prominent Marquis—in blatant disregard of royal decree—narrowly escaped the warrant for his own arrest so that he may cross the Atlantic on a merchant ship and offer himself to the American cause.

~~

“Is it still strange to find a Frenchman among American troops?” Fersen asked later that evening, approaching the Marquis as the latter stepped out for a smoke.

“I don’t believe it was ever strange,” Lafayette replied, “There had been an abundance of French volunteers, many of whom lacked experience and spoke little English. The American Congress were nearly at a loss for what to do with them.”

“It is ironic then,” Fersen mused, “Now that the King had finally declared war, enthusiasm appeared to have waned.”

“The French had been fighting this war long before the King declared it,” Lafayette huffed out a plume of smoke. “Enthusiasm tends to wane the longer a war drags on.” 

Fersen hummed thoughtfully, as the Marquis pressed closed his eyes, grimacing at the ache blossoming against his temples. He was too exhausted for small talk, too exhausted in general, but the young Count overlooked his obvious desire to be left alone and pondered aloud rather absently, “Perhaps, it is much more strange to find a Swede among the Americans, or even among the French.”

Fersen was bored—that much was apparent—his pent-up energy practically rolling off him in waves. He had just arrived to the New World after all, only to be bridled by Rochambeau’s stubborn inaction. He had neither tasted the thrills of victory nor suffered the anguish of defeat, while Lafayette had fought alongside the Americans for the past three years and mourned the loss of old friends and new comrades alike. Just over a year ago, he himself had taken a bullet to the leg in a hasty retreat from Brandywine.

“Unlike the French, we do not consider the British our natural enemy,” Fersen acknowledged after a brief stretch of silence, “Although, I do not believe that this is the reason you are here, Marquis. And I have been eager to finally speak to the man considered _the hero of two worlds_.”

Lafayette chuckled at the poorly disguised flattery but could not suppress the note of cynicism in his tone. “Surely, that is not the reason why _you_ are here.”

“No, that is not why I crossed the Atlantic,” Fersen laughed good-naturedly, in spite of the teasing. “Although, it is one reason why I’d rather remain in your camp than return to Rochambeau.

“I do not envy you,” Lafayette conceded, “Although, I am afraid your stay here will be a disappointment as well. I am not as fascinating as the papers like to portray. And I can prattle on about my principles and ideals, but that will only tire you to no end.”

It was a bluff—a poor one at that—and Fersen called it almost immediately.

“We are both at an impasse until more reinforcements arrive,” the Swede insisted, lips curved in a knowing grin, “I do not object to hearing your thoughts, as long as _you_ are not the one tired of sharing them.”

Lafayette felt his face warm, having been so easily figured out. He allowed himself a small smile in surrender, just as Fersen’s eyes dropped rather bizarrely to his mouth, to where a thin paper roll of tobacco remained perched between his lips.

“Pardon me—” The Marquis faltered, only realizing now how rude he must have appeared, to not have offered to share a smoke sooner. “The Americans call them _papelates_. I find them more convenient than cigars. Would you like one?”

Fersen eyed the proffered case of _papelates_ curiously, before accepting with a polite nod. He brought the roll to his lips as Lafayette patted his pockets for his matchbook. And just as his fingers closed around the square outline within the lining of his coat, the Swedish Count leaned into the space over his shoulder, touching the end of his unlit _papelate_ against Lafayette’s and stunning the Frenchman into stillness.

“No need to waste matches during wartime,” Fersen explained as he withdrew, exhaling a cloud of smoke that hung in the windless air between them. “And now, if you are willing—and _only_ if you are—explain to me why the revered Marquis de Lafayette volunteered himself to a foreigners’ war.”

~~

The next day, Lafayette approached Fersen after signing and sealing his song of hate to Rochambeau. He caught the unsuspecting Count at the edge of the camp, furtively reading a message of his own. The Marquis coughed meaningfully and watched with bemusement as the young Count flinched and released a startled yelp.

“I did not hear you come up behind me,” Fersen admitted, appearing flustered like a school boy caught with risqué tabloid clippings. “I was just reading a letter—a personal letter.”

“Have you spent so much time in my camp that personal letters are delivered to you here?” Lafayette meant for the comment to be in jest, but his typical sternness must have eclipsed any attempt at humor. Fersen flushed even deeper, interpreting his remark as reprimand.

“No, I misspoke. I was _rereading_ a letter that I brought with me, written by someone I hold dear to my heart. I will not allow it to distract me further, I apologize.”

The Marquis sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Do not look so fretful. I have nothing important to say. I simply wished to give you my response to Rochambeau.”

“Oh, very well.” Fersen straightened himself, composure finally restored. “I shall deliver it at once.”

“Thank you,” Lafayette nodded, turning on his heel to leave, but their conversation did not end as expected, as Fersen’s trailing words beckoned for him to remain.

“I thought about what you said,” admitted the Count, “About the importance of fighting for your beliefs, and that freedom and equality for all are a natural condition for mankind. You spoke excellently, Marquis, and I understand now, why so many men were eager to follow you into the New World.”

The young Swede appeared almost shy as his revelation tapered to an end, an uncharacteristic divergence from his typical poetics and playful, outlandish praise. Those words sounded more genuine, stripped down to their core sentiment of irrefutable respect and admiration. And Lafayette —never one to take a compliment well—could only nod stiffly in return. 

“That is —generous of you to say. Thank you.”

“My reasons for joining the war are less noble,” Fersen confessed sheepishly, ducking his head as he spoke. “They were mostly for personal gain. I wanted to make a name for myself and prove my worth to my family and my country. But nonetheless, I am glad that I fight for the good cause that you speak of.”

“Every man feels certain that their war is backed by a good cause,” Lafayette replied, needing to distance himself from the burden of yet another soldier’s blind trust. “Do not believe in my cause simply because I say so. Your own judgment holds more value than the persuasion of any other man.”

~~

Memories of Versailles flitted through his mind of the charming Swedish diplomat dancing with their beautiful, heedless Queen. Fersen pressed his lips to her Majesty’s outstretched hand, and even beneath the shield of his ornate mask, the bright angelite blue of his eyes shimmered with reverence and adoration. What had transpired later that night, Lafayette was only made aware as a reluctant recipient of sensationalist gossip. But surely, the young Count would not continue his correspondence with the Queen, given the inordinate amount of infamy brought on by their frivolous behavior that evening.

He would be a fool to seek her favor now.

He would be a fool to have fallen in love with her.

~~

The following month passed without the Marquis seeing much of battle, but elsewhere in the New World, war continued badly for the Americans as victory remained elusive in the south. American leaders urged Lafayette to return to France to rally for more forces, but the Marquis refused to abandon his command, choosing to spend his days writing tirelessly to every aristocrat he knew, as well as the King himself.

His battle of words with Rochambeau slipped on his list of priorities, and therefore, Fersen’s once perennial presence also dwindled to an end. Although Lafayette had shown taciturn disapproval of the Swede at the masquerade ball, the young Count had not been bad company when apart from the decadence and shallow gaiety of the French nobility. Fersen was passionate and honest, liberal-minded and well-read. Even his tendency for waxing poetics—which Lafayette had once found border-lining farcical—often restyled itself to engaging rhetoric and quick-witted humor. 

Against the echoes of gunfire, the rattle of death, and the cold-withered backdrop of the New England winter, Fersen shined opulent and bright in comparison. Lafayette often caught himself watching the shadowed dunes that split the eastern horizon, anticipating the appearance of a figure on horseback despite knowing that none will be forthcoming. 

He never dwelled on the strangeness of this behavior. He considered himself a creature of habit, and nothing more.

~~

After eleven months of complete inactivity, Rochambeau finally led his men to join Washington’s army in Philipsburg, where the French contingent saw battle for the first time. Word of their victory came to Lafayette a week later, and the Marquis would only credit Washington’s strength and cunning that Rochambeau’s men were not devastated completely. 

By the time his own troops combined with their joint army, a much needed victory at Chesapeake had also been declared. Reunited with General Washington, a man he had long considered both a father-figure and a mentor, as well as Rochambeau, with whom he had developed an uneasy truce, Lafayette felt for the first time in months that the American dream for freedom could actually be within their reach. Despite the jubilation and the boisterous chaos at the camp, Lafayette couldn’t help but search the crowd for a head of dark hair and bright, blue eyes. And the longer he failed in his search, the fiercer his gut coiled with dread.

“Axel von Fersen, the Swedish Count,” he demanded from a passing French soldier, not having swallowed enough of his pride to ask Rochambeau himself—although several times, he had come close. “Do you know where I might find him?”

~~

Lafayette eventually found Fersen by the medical bay, tucked behind the crates of spare bedding and clean linens. After the initial shock of seeing the Marquis, Fersen offered a _papelate_ like Lafayette had once done for him, cursing under his breath as he struggled to strike a light. His hands shook violently as he fumbled with the matchbook, prompting Lafayette to reach over and steady them with his own. 

“Allow me,” the Marquis offered, taking the matchbook from the Swede so he could light both of their smokes. 

After a few deep inhales, Fersen appeared to have calmed down, leaning his back against the crates as he glanced sideways at the Frenchman beside him. “These will be the death of me,” he lamented, flicking glowing cinders from the end of his _papelate_ , “I can’t go a day without them, and I hate you for introducing them to me.”

Fersen spoke in jest, but his voice lacked his usual archness. Despite their resounding victory at  Philipsburg and then Chesapeake, the young Swede sounded chastened, defeated. Lafayette pinched together his brows, failing to conjure the words needed to express his concern. Frankly, he was not sure where he should begin.

“I didn’t mean that, Lafayette,” Fersen amended with a frown, as if worried that the Frenchman might actually take his flippant remark to heart. 

A few months since their reacquaintance, Fersen had dropped their titles and formalities completely, and Lafayette never bothered to correct him. They were friends —or at least, close enough to being friends, given the circumstances that had drawn them together. And in the throes of war, an ocean away from home, titles honestly meant so little.

“I knew that you had joined our camp,” Fersen acknowledged in the ensuing silence, “Please don’t take offense to me not seeking you out. I simply wished for a moment to myself.”

“Then, I must apologize for intruding,” Lafayette admitted, a wave of unforeseen embarrassment rushing through him. How uncharacteristic of him to be so presumptuous, so impatient.

“No, please—” Fersen hastened to object, reaching for the cuff of his sleeve before the Frenchman could withdraw, “I’m glad you found me. I did not wish to be alone, but I was too ashamed to seek company. I loathe to burden you with my troubles but—I must speak to someone. A close friend of mine passed from his injury this morning.”

The Swede swallowed, his next breath coming in a short and shuddery gasp. Lafayette stiffened beneath the weight of this revelation, before settling back to his previous position adjacent to the other man. He had no talent for affectionate gestures, no vocabulary to comfort or soothe. He wished he weren’t so useless in this respect, but in that moment, all he could hope for was that his silence and presence were affirmation enough.

“I saw a British soldier strike him down with a bayonet,” explained the Swede, “I tried to save him, but—I’ve only managed to avenge his death. Forgive me, but I—I am simply devastated by the loss of him.”

His voice hitched to a stop, and with one hand, he covered his mouth, trapping the miserable sound lodged in his throat. His eyes were wide and unblinking—focused on nothing in particular—as if the mortifying realization that he was crying had struck him suddenly and without warning. Lafayette remained quietly still, stupefied by the wet lashes darkening to soot, and the tears falling like pearls from those crystal blue eyes. 

“I killed the man that killed my friend,” Fersen continued, “I don’t know if he is the first man I have killed on the battlefield but—he was the first whom I watched die before me, who had watched me in return. I loathed him for hurting my friend, but his death was no consolation. I found no relief in killing another man.”

Another pause, followed by a soft, deprecating laugh. “You must think me terribly weak, Marquis,” Fersen grimaced with a palpable amount of shame. 

And it was then that Lafayette finally, _finally_ recovered his voice. 

“No, I do not,” he said, “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Well, I certainly _feel_ weak,” Fersen scoffed, drying his eyes with rough swipes of his palm, “For you to find me here, hiding away and crying like a child.”

“Your reaction simply means that you cared for your friend, and that your affection was genuine,” insisted the Marquis, “I do not trust a man who can walk away from the battlefield without a wounded soul. I too have mourned the loss of a close friend. I—I mourn for him still, even if I must hide it for the sake of my position.”

“I’m sorry,” Fersen sighed, his eyes brimmed red but no longer wet, although an air of sadness fell over them like a shroud. “But I wish I could hide it as well as you. I cannot bear the thought of appearing weak in front of all these _revolutionary heroes_ , such as yourself.”

“No one will consider you weak for mourning the loss of a friend,” Lafayette insisted, overlooking the petulant remark. “And those who do, their opinions should hardly matter.”

That managed to draw a small, reluctant smile from the young Count. Fersen relaxed against the crate behind him, his melancholy eyes fluttering closed as his head thumped softly on the flat board of wood. Lafayette searched inside himself for further gestures of comfort or words of consolation, only to come back empty. Despite the innate and _human_ desire to ameliorate another’s pain, all the Marquis had at his disposal were quiet truths, which—he conceded—were rarely gentle or kind.

“I will not offend you by pretending that this will get easier with time,” he spoke his careful words, gripping Fersen by his shoulder to gather his attention. And sure enough, bright eyes soon blinked open to lock with his. “If you truly believe that all men are created equal—know that many have died before us in pursuit of this ideal, and many will continue to die after. Honor these men, mourn for them, but remember that they deserve our loyalty above all else. Our struggles are but a continuous pilgrimage to that shared belief, and we owe it to their sacrifice to fight, to live on, and to carry with us this legacy.” 

~~

“Are you even authorized to speak on this?” Lafayette looked up from his tactical schematics after Fersen had sidled up next to him, finally freed from his translator duties to Rochambeau.

“Oh, loosen up, Lafayette,” Fersen rolled his eyes, “This is not news. Everyone knows how General Washington _adores_ the valiant young Marquis. Rochambeau is tired of hearing about your exploits, although he is too courteous to interject. Frankly, I tire of it too.”

“And yet, you insist on speaking about it after the fact,” Lafayette commented drily, returning his attention to his parchments.

Caught in his contradiction, Fersen huffed in annoyance. “I’ve already gone through the trouble of translating everything from English to French and back,” was the excuse he offered. “Hard work should be acknowledged.”

He then went on to repeat what he had just said, donning an uncanny impression of General Washington. And as if that wasn’t audacious enough, Fersen then slipped seamlessly between English and French, before tossing Swedish, German, and Italian into the fray and mimicked other world leaders in singing Lafayette’s praise.

The son of the de facto parliamentary leader and one of the most powerful men in Sweden, Fersen was tutored several languages in his childhood in preparation for a future in diplomacy. His linguistic expertise made him an indispensable—if not overqualified— _aide-de-camp_ , and at times like this, a dreadful showoff. 

Begrudgingly amused, Lafayette allowed the impropriety to slide. He had observed closely the way Fersen’s mood rose and dipped since the passing of his friend, and in that moment, he was simply grateful to find the young Count sounding more like himself.

~~

The combined Franco-American army worked tirelessly to corner the British infantry in Yorktown. Trenches were dug, artillery stationed, even as the British opened fire upon them unpredictably to weaken their defenses. A diversionary attack launched by the French militia had culminated in failure, their plans likely disclosed to their enemies by a deserter. Rochambeau was furious when he received word from the front line, practically imprisoning himself and Fersen inside Washington’s tent until a new tactic could be drawn. 

“I know you do not think highly of Rochambeau,” Fersen commented later that evening, as he and Lafayette stepped out after supper to share another smoke. “But he does have more years of military experience than either of us have been alive.”

“My grievance has nothing to do with his experience,” the Marquis explained, “Or skill, for that matter. He is too conservative, too set in his ways. He does not respond well to change, and in the world we live in today, if we do not adapt, we die.”

“Conservation has its merits,” Fersen insisted, ever the diplomat. “Not every general can be dauntless hero Marquis de Lafayette, breaking royal decree on principles alone, and going off to fight the British from inside their _own_ colony. Everyone thought you’ve lost your mind.”

“I’ve explained my reasoning countless times,” defended Lafayette, “I’ve prevailed on the King, even if it had taken years.”

“Imagine arriving in the New World by yourself,” Fersen grinned as he prattled on, “Without the backing of your people or your King, and then, demanding Washington for an army of _Americans_ to lead. What audacity, what _hubris_?”

“My intention was to help,” the Marquis frowned, realizing that when framed in that fashion, his behavior did come across as ridiculous. “My expertise lies in military tactics and leadership—it was the only way I knew how to serve in this cause.”

“Dear God, Lafayette,” Fersen laughed, apparently finding great amusement in his indignation. “Why must you take everything so seriously? You do not need to justify yourself to me. I was only teasing.”

Lafayette glared at the Swede, bereft of words. How else was he supposed to respond to those challenges?

“And to think I pictured you utterly unhinged,” Fersen continued to guffaw, “Only to learn that you are the most serious, unsmiling man in all of France.”

The Marquis shook his head, growing weary of being the object of the Swede’s ridicule. “Did you bring me out here just to mock me?” he asked drily, dropping the butt of his _papelate_ before pressing the heel of his boot against it. 

Fersen scoffed, stamping out his smoke as well. “I certainly cannot mock you in front of the Americans. I’d be hung for blasphemy.” He then paused, his smile fading and making way for an air of pensiveness, and perhaps, a hint of doubt. “But I—I prefer this version of you over any ludicrous expectations I had before meeting you properly. I enjoy your company and this—easy camaraderie. One that I never thought we would share.”

Only Fersen can manage to offend him, praise him, and render him speechless all in one breath. “Likewise,” Lafayette returned and felt the word hang heavily between them.

~~

Fire over Yorktown intensified in the following days. The British troops were outnumbered and outgunned, and their final, desperate attempt to escape by river had been foiled by unexpected thunder and squalls of driving rain. On the morning of October 17, 1781, a drummer appeared on the hills of Yorktown, alongside a British officer waving a white flag. 

The British surrendered two days later, the soldiers marching from their battered base and laying their weapons before the French and American troops. Lafayette stood proudly beside his American comrades while the French soldiers flanked the British on the other side, with Fersen at the right hand of Rochambeau. From across the camp, Fersen winked at him, as if sharing in his private amusement of acknowledging a Swedish Count among the French and a French Marquis among the Americans. 

The siege of Yorktown was a decisive victory in the American Revolutionary War, although another two years would pass before the official signing of the peace treaty. But the British Parliament had called for an immediate cease to hostilities, and in the following months, all foreign soldiers were granted permission to return home.

~~

“Surely, you would come back to France with us?” Although Fersen posited this as a question, he certainly would not take no for an answer. “There is no longer a warrant for your arrest—not that the King truly wanted to arrest you in the first place. And just because you arrived alone in the New Word doesn’t mean you shouldn’t return home among friends.”

Eventually, Lafayette gave in to the haranguing and consented to boarding their ship, and the two-month journey across the Atlantic certainly felt less tiresome and boring in the company of others. He passed his time playing cards with other soldiers and exchanging stories over whiskey and wine. And often, he would find himself on the deck, enjoying the calming sea breeze while smoking through his packs of _papelates_ with Fersen.

“I hear that the Queen is organizing a banquet to welcome us back as heroes,” Fersen revealed, radiating joy at the thought of returning to Versailles.

Lafayette couldn’t help but ponder the dread tightening in his gut, and the myriad of unexplained feelings that he had no words for, that he saw no other option but to ignore until now. 

Fersen had once confessed that he never thought their easy camaraderie was possible. Before the war, Lafayette had firmly believed it impossible—or more precisely, he had never once bothered to entertain the idea. Even now, their friendship is but a fragile thing, born from shared wartime grief and a mutual sense of endless, toiling purpose. 

Would they survive the decadence and hedonism so pervasive among the French nobility—a circle that Lafayette abhorred while Fersen appeared desperate to become a part of? Perhaps, at one point, but certainly not now—not after Lafayette had seen, experienced, and lived through so much beyond the shallow, frivolous lives of the prosperous few.  But he glamor of Versailles beckoned like a siren’s song, as beguiling as the Queen herself. How could Lafayette and their quiet, easy camaraderie possibly compare?

To dwell on this now felt like destroying what precious little that remained, so Lafayette contented himself with their time spent together—sharing smokes with the young Count and smiling at his jokes. The halcyon days passed with ocean waves beneath their feet and sunlight on their backs, and neither of them mentioned how Fersen would look intrepidly onwards towards their destination while Lafayette often dragged his eyes back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, comments and kudos appreciated! <3


End file.
